


requiem for a necklace

by boomerangst (SevereChill)



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Screenplay/Script Format, Texting, Two Shot, bartender!Miroku, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereChill/pseuds/boomerangst
Summary: Sango loses a necklace; Miroku finds an opportunity.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> For Allison—happy birthday my strong musk ox

_Things must be getting dire if even_ Inuyasha’s _noticed_ , thought Kagome. She arched an eyebrow at her boyfriend, who was sprawled beside her on the couch like an indolent starfish. 

“Since when do you care so much about Miroku and Sango?”

Inuyasha bristled, then seemed to remember who he was talking to and reined it in. “Keh. I _don’t_ ,” he insisted. “It’s just a pain that I can’t hang out with _my_ friend all the time because he makes _your_ friend uncomfortable.” Kagome stared at him until he snapped, “Would you quit looking at me like that? What’s your problem?” 

“Nothing. It’s just…since when are you so thoughtful, Inuyasha?”

“I ain’t _thoughtful_. I was just _saying._ ” He grumbled something else under his breath, too low for Kagome to catch. It might have been “would’ve thought you’d’ve gotten involved by now.”

“I’ve considered it,” admitted Kagome. “And I _am_ bringing Sango to the bar again tonight. But I don’t think I need to get involved. Besides, Miroku doesn’t make Sango uncomfortable. He just bothers her.”

“Ain’t that the same thing?”

Kagome shook her head. “He bothers her in a comfortable way. That’s why I don’t think I need to get involved—yet. If she were anyone else, she would have said yes by now.”

Inuyasha scoffed. “If she were anybody else, Miroku wouldn’t be so damn obsessed with her,” he pointed out. He really _was_ thoughtful today. Insightful, even. Kagome was proud of him. He’d come such a long way.

She let her head rest just beneath his sternum. “Exactly. Things will work themselves out! We just have to have faith.”

She felt a snort of dismissal rumble through his chest. Oh well. Baby steps.

 

* * *

  

There was the slightest of sounds as the thin silver chain around Sango’s neck snapped, followed by the clink of a metal pendant hitting pavement. It rolled across the sidewalk and disappeared into a grate, where it punctuated its delinquency with a small, anticlimactic _splish_.

“Oh no,” said Kagome, sinking to her knees beside the grate.

“Can you see it?” asked Sango anxiously, peering over her shoulder. 

Kagome shook her head. The grate was deep—the only thing visible in the dark, sludgy water at the bottom was a wavering reflection of the pale gray sky, its circle broken up by the criss-cross of the grate and the silhouettes of two dark heads.

“It happened so fast,” muttered Sango. She stared at the broken chain dangling from her fist, wishing she had never agreed to come to the bar at 8 pm on a Thursday.

“I’m so sorry, Sango,” said Kagome, rising to her feet and wrapping an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

“Why? It wasn’t your fault,” said Sango, who had just been thinking it was all Kagome’s fault. She knew that was unfair, though. Kagome certainly hadn’t forced Sango to fidget with her necklace all the time.

Maybe it was the chain’s fault, for being so flimsy. Sango knew she should have picked a stronger chain.

Or maybe it was Miroku’s fault, for having a grate right outside his bar. Yes. That felt right. Miroku’s bar, Miroku’s fault. _Miroku’s fault_ —why did those two words seem to fit together so perfectly?

With a last regretful look at the grate that had swallowed up her necklace, Sango followed Kagome through the swinging doors of the Drunk Monk.

 

* * *

 

Miroku was pretty sure he had a sixth sense that was specifically attuned to Sango, because he looked up from wiping a particularly sticky section of bar at the exact moment she walked through the doors. Was it his imagination, or was she moving in slow motion—foot coming down heel, ball, and toes, hips swiveling one millimeter at a time, head turning in an art gallery-worthy collection of still frames—Woman Looking Down, Woman Looking Away, Woman Uninterested In You. Was someone playing Spandau Ballet’s _True_ over the speakers, or was that Miroku’s imagination, too? And why was everything in soft focus all of a sudden?

Inuyasha set down the beer he was nursing and swiveled around to see what Miroku was looking at. “Oh yeah,” he said, one ear still trained on Miroku as he waved to Kagome. “Forgot to tell you, Kagome said she was gonna bring Sango with her.”

“Some warning would have been nice,” muttered Miroku, picking ruefully at the threadbare shirt he’d chosen that morning.

Inuyasha reached across the bar to slap him on the shoulder. “Ah, get over it. Warning you wasn’t gonna make any difference. You’d make an ass of yourself either way,” he snickered. Being in a stable, healthy relationship with a sweet, fun girl like Kagome was making him completely insufferable, Miroku decided.

Inuyasha must have picked up on the direction his friend’s thoughts had taken, because he rolled his eyes. “Oi, cheer up, would ya? Kagome says Sango’s, like, halfway to considering you. You must be wearing her down.”

_Wearing her down?_ Miroku wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. He didn’t want to wear Sango down—he wanted to sweep her off her feet. And also into bed with him. Yes, that would be ideal. If only she were the type of girl who would _allow_ him to sweep her off her feet. In Sango’s case, any attempt to sweep her off her feet would likely result in some kind of gravity-defying aerial spin kick to the face. 

Oh well. If Miroku couldn’t sweep her off her feet, he would settle for serving her alcohol. At least that way, there was some chance he might make it into her good graces. 

Speaking of which. “Hi,” said Sango, sliding onto the stool beside Inuyasha. Kagome took the seat on his other side, draping his arm over her shoulders. He had always been naturally resistant to public displays of affection, but Kagome was, to borrow Inuyasha’s own phrase, slowly wearing him down. He seemed content enough tonight, anyway. 

Sango, on the other hand, looked positively gloomy. She was a solemn person under ordinary circumstances, but there was something almost despondent about the furrow in her brow tonight, something listless in her voice as she ordered a Jack and Coke. “Coming right up,” said Miroku. There was probably no point in going through their usual routine when her patience was already thin.

(Their usual routine went like this:1

INT./EXT. VARIOUS LOCATIONS - ASSORTED HOURS OF DAY AND NIGHT

 

MIROKU

                                                                                         Hello, Sango. You’re looking lovely today.

                                                                                         Drinks later/Coffee tomorrow/movie on Friday?

 

SANGO

                                                                                                        (rolling her eyes)

                                                                                           No thanks.

 

MIROKU

                                                                                         Or if you prefer, we could…what’s the phrase?

                                                                                         “Netflix and chill.”

 

SANGO

                                                                                                       (rolling her eyes harder)

                                                                                        Or we could _not_.

 

MIROKU

                                                                                                       (casually)

                                                                                       Or we could skip all of that and you could admit

                                                                                       your deep romantic feelings for me and agree to

                                                                                       bear my children.

 

SANGO

                                                                                                       (almost fondly)

                                                                                      In your dreams.

 

MIROKU

                                                                                      Yes, _definitely_ in my dreams.

 

These interactions didn’t typically go very far, and were on occasion followed by a SLAP.)

Instead, Miroku watched Sango out of the corner of his eye as he poured and mixed various ingredients for her and Kagome. Yes, there was a definite listlessness to her movements, and the way she focused on Inuyasha and Kagome’s chatter was half-hearted, the spark of interest entirely absent from her eyes. 

Miroku decided to stay on his best behavior. “I know it’s none of my business,” he began, sliding Sango’s drink across to her, “but is something wrong?”

“Her necklace snapped and the pendant rolled into that storm grate in the sidewalk out front,” answered Kagome. Sango gave a glum nod of confirmation and took a long sip of her Jack and Coke.

Come to think of it, her neck did seem unusually bare. Bare, and also smooth, and flawless, and _inviting_ … “Oh. I’m sorry,” said Miroku before his thoughts could stray any farther in that direction. “Was it something expensive?” 

“No,” sighed Sango. “It’s nothing fancy like that, it’s just…well, Kohaku gave it to me.” 

Miroku arched an eyebrow. “Kohaku?”

“Her brother,” said Kagome quickly. “She’s still totally single.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” complained Sango.

“Nothing,” said Kagome. She shot Miroku a lightning fast wink before reaching across Inuyasha to pat Sango’s hand. “I feel terrible, Sango. I didn’t know Kohaku gave it to you.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine,” said Sango, sounding anything but. “It was a birthday present from right before I left for college, so I’ve had it forever. I just wear it a lot, that’s all.”

Kagome clapped her hands together as if to dispel all the negative feelings. “I know what’ll cheer you up,” she announced, hopping down from her stool. “Kicking my butt at pinball!”

“Okay,” agreed Sango, sliding down after her. “But don’t let me win out of pity.” There was a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, but she wasn’t nearly cheered-up enough by Miroku’s standards. If she’d just relax a little and let him in, he was certain _he_ could make her much happier. Or at least distract her until she forgot to be upset. Now there was an idea. _Mmmm, yes_. He’d find them so many delightful distractions…

He was jolted out of his daydreams by a flick to the forehead from Inuyasha. “Oi, Earth to pervert. Better wipe that dumb look off your face before Sango catches you staring again.”

“Thanks,” sighed Miroku, retrieving his cloth so he could finish wiping down the bar. After a second, he tossed it down in defeat. “I’m afraid this approach is getting me nowhere,” he mused aloud.

“Yeah, no shit,” agreed Inuyasha. 

“Well then, what do _you_ suggest I do?” challenged Miroku. 

Inuyasha’s eyebrows retreated up his forehead until they were hidden under his spiky fringe of hair. “Are you askin’ _me_ for girl advice?”

“Well…yes,” admitted Miroku, scratching the back of his neck. “Sango likes _you_.” He failed spectacularly at keeping the envy out of his voice.

“Probably ‘cause I don’t ask her out every ten seconds,” said Inuyasha. 

“Are you suggesting that the best way to get Sango to go out with me is _not to ask_? That’s terrible advice,” Miroku scoffed.

Inuyasha looked thoughtful—a new expression for him. It was unsettling. “I dunno. You’d be surprised. I never asked Kagome out— _she’s_ the one who came on to _me_.” This last part was accompanied by a flash of canines that definitely qualified as a leer. 

“Come now, Inuyasha—there’s no need to rub it in.”

“Keh. You _asked_. I’ll rub it in all I want.”

 

* * *

 

Several games of pinball and one brutally short game of foosball later (Sango and Inuyasha having thoroughly trounced Miroku and Kagome), Sango ordered a fourth drink. She usually stopped at a responsible two, but so far no amount of raucous competition had managed to take her mind off the loss she’d just suffered, so getting plastered seemed worth a try. Miroku eyed her with concern as he slid yet another Jack and Coke over. 

“Am I going to have to confiscate your car keys?” 

Sango slumped forward, resting her chin on one hand. “I walked here.”

“Oh, right. How could I forget? You live over by…”

She chuckled. “Nice try, stalker.” 

Miroku grinned crookedly. “Worth a shot.” He set down the glass he was wiping and rested an elbow on the bar, mirroring her pose. “But if you keep drinking at this rate, you won’t even be able to make it back to wherever it is you live on foot.”

Sango shrugged. “It’s called the _Drunk_ Monk, not the Slightly Buzzed Monk,” she pointed out. “I’m just doing what you’re _supposed_ to do at a dive bar.” She took another swig.

If Miroku was offended by her labeling his bar a dive, he didn’t show it. Instead, he focused on her, brow furrowed. “Is this about your necklace?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Sango. She knew she must sound pathetic, but she was too drunk to lie. And anyway, it was only Miroku. 

“It was really important to you, huh?”

She nodded.

Miroku tapped his chin. “What does it look like? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Sango swirled a finger around the ring of condensation her glass had left on the bar (Miroku didn’t bother with coasters, which was one of many reasons the Drunk Monk qualified as a dive in her opinion.) “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she instructed, sounding more vulnerable than she’d intended. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” promised Miroku, crossing his heart with his free hand.

“It’s—it _was_ —a flat silver medal engraved with a serotonin molecule,” she told him. “Kohaku picked it because he knew I was planning to major in biochemistry.” 

“Serotonin?” 

Sango couldn’t tell whether he was genuinely curious or just humoring her, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “It’s a neurotransmitter—a chemical in your brain that regulates mood, among other things. It can keep you happy, when it’s at the right levels,” she explained.

Miroku blinked. “That’s very…cute,” he pronounced. “Your brother sounds like a good kid.”

She nodded again, more fervently this time. “He is. And now he’s a biochem major, too. I’m so proud of him.” She dug her phone out of her pocket and showed Miroku the lock screen photo: herself and Kohaku out on the balcony of her apartment, the sun sinking below the skyline behind them. Kagome had snapped it the last time Kohaku had come to visit. 

“He looks like you,” remarked Miroku.

“Oh, no. Are you going to start pestering _him_ to go out with you now, too?” Sango teased, setting her phone down on the bar. 

“No, I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full bothering you.”

“Well, you’re doing a terrible job today,” admitted Sango, smiling down at her drink. “I’m not bothered at all.”

 

* * *

 

**Sango** [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

2:21 AM

Hey kagome, it’s miroku. could you let Sango know she left her phone at the bar?

 

**Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

2:23 AM

she passed out like the second we got home

I’ll tell her to swing by in the morning!

assuming she’s not too hungover lol

 

**Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

10:18 AM

hey, it’s sango. would it be all right if I come by at around 11 to get my phone?

 

**Sango** [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

10:19 AM

certainly

you can recover your phone and then I’ll take you out to lunch

 

**Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

10:19 AM

nice try

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: for best results, imagine this part in Courier.
> 
> Have you ever dropped your favorite necklace into a grate and needed to write mirsan to process the traumatic event? I have. RIP.
> 
> Originally written for Mirsan Week 2017, day 4: "gratitude ~~\+ black and white~~."


	2. ii

Miroku paused in unlocking the doors to the Drunk Monk to look over his shoulder at the rusty grate in the sidewalk behind him. He had never considered it before. In the space of an evening it had transformed from a harmless feature of the sidewalk, passively doing its job and providing drainage, to a sinister pit that swallowed up innocent necklaces with all the grim finality of a black hole.

He left his keys stuck in the door and squatted at the edge of the grate. It didn’t look so deep—maybe two meters. He looked around for something to drop into it himself, in order to get an idea of how deep the water at the bottom was. After sacrificing a stray wood chip and a couple of pebbles for the purpose, he was forced to conclude that it was deeper than he’d thought—maybe ten centimeters. It was difficult to tell when not even the brilliance of the midmorning sun was enough to illuminate the grate’s shadowy depths.

He rose, resolutely turned his back on the grate, and finished unlocking the doors. There was no point in fretting about the loss of something that wasn’t even his.

There wasn’t much to do around the bar during the day. Miroku double-checked that liquor and food ingredients were well-stocked, glasses and dishes clean, and that the windows weren’t too filthy. They weren’t, but he got out the Windex anyway to give his hands something to do. They kept reaching into his pocket to double-check that Sango’s phone was still there, as if it might disappear in an even more improbable fashion than her necklace had. It was now 11:09 and he’d received no further texts from either Kagome or Sango-as-Kagome.

Anxiety and neuroticism were as foreign to Miroku as manners and tact were to Inuyasha. He had no clue what else to do in order to rid himself of the itch to keep checking his and Sango’s phones. The best case scenario was that these windows were going to be really, _really_ clean. The worst was that he was going to end up doing shots alone at 11 AM because a girl who wouldn’t go out with him was taking too long to come get her phone. Which wouldn’t be rock bottom on the scale of stupid and/or pathetic things he’d done, but it wasn’t _great_ either.

He was just shutting away the cleaning supplies when a mysterious magnetic current pulled his head around, drawing his focus to the doorway as Sango slow-motioned in. Yes, there was definitely a sixth sense involved here. She almost seemed to be floating, silhouetted against the glare of the white hot sun so that her afterimage would be stamped into his retinas. And the speakers were definitely off, so why was the saxophone solo from Careless Whisper blaring so loud in his ears?

 _Get a grip_ , he ordered himself. _Stop hearing imaginary eighties ballads._ He blinked until his eyes adjusted enough to take in Sango’s ensemble of black bomber jacket over pink sundress, plus a pair of humongous drugstore sunglasses that he interpreted as a symptom of her still-hungover state. His suspicions were confirmed when she winced at the enthusiasm of his greeting, which he was sure hadn’t been _that_ loud.

“That bad?” said Miroku, coming out from behind the bar.

Sango pushed her sunglasses up on her head and scrubbed a hand over her face. “Ugh. Don’t ever let me drink that much again,” she ordered him, sinking onto a barstool.

Normally Miroku would have responded with some quip about how such a course of action would be bad for business, but he was too preoccupied by the implication (Admission? _Promise_?) that they’d be drinking together again in the future. At the very least, it meant that he and his evil sidewalk grate hadn’t driven her away for good yet.

He handed Sango’s phone over with a deferential flourish, his own Miroku spin on the classic kowtow. “I believe this belongs to you.”

She took it and scrolled through it for a second, glancing up at Miroku through slightly narrowed eyes as though she suspected him of reading her texts (he hadn’t, although the temptation had been severe.) Then she switched it off and buried her face in her folded arms, hair flopping over one elbow and onto the bar.

There was a muffled groan, and then she looked up at him, a little chagrined. “Sorry. I don’t mean to mope all over your bar like this, but the main thing I remember from last night…”

“Is losing your necklace?” he guessed.

She nodded. “I thought I’d feel better about it in the morning, but instead I just feel like an idiot.”

“Now _that_ I can relate to.”

She laughed—a small victory. Miroku decided it was time to push his luck. “You know,” he tried to say casually, “I’m a responsible bartender. Over the years I’ve acquired, shall we say…certain skills.”

“If this is going to be another backdoor brag about how you’re good in bed, you can save your breath,” interrupted Sango.

“I was _actually_ alluding to my skill at preparing hangover cures,” was Miroku’s sanguine reply. “But if you’d prefer to hear about how _amazing_ I am in bed—which, I might add, cannot be a backdoor brag when it’s the _truth_ —I would be only too happy to oblige you.”

“No, no. The first thing, please,” giggled Sango.

“Very well. One hangover cure, coming right up.”

* * *

 

Sango had never paid much attention to the act of bartending before, but if you'd asked her, she’d have been forced to admit that Miroku was good at it. There was always a confident crispness to his movements as he poured and stirred—he looked the way she felt while she was going through martial arts forms.

Because the ingredients that _cured_ hangovers were not as readily available here as the ingredients that caused them, it was taking him a while to assemble everything. Crushed ice went into a cocktail shaker along with a bright red liquid that might have been Pedialyte. Next, Miroku produced a fresh ginger root, a can of club soda, and a packet of ramen, which went into a microwave Sango hadn’t even known was back there. (“Inuyasha refuses to enter any establishment that doesn’t have a microwave,” was all the explanation she received.) The ramen broth and a few noodles were mixed with a generous amount of club soda, then combined with the cold Pedialyte slush and poured into two double shot glasses.

The biochemistry PhD student part of Sango’s brain was telling her she should definitely _not_ drink this, but the rest of her brain had already decided to drink it anyway—she was no coward. She leaned over the bar for a closer look as Miroku minced the ginger and then sprinkled it into the shot glasses with exaggerated flair 1. Finally, he produced two Alka-Seltzer tablets, which he _ker-plunk_ ed into the glasses from an unnecessary height.

The result was two glasses of a sludgy, reddish-brown liquid that was simultaneously fizzing and faintly steaming. The pale shape of a soggy ramen noodle was just visible through the murk as it pressed against the side of one glass. Miroku set that one in front of Sango and took the other for himself.

Sango couldn’t hide her surprise. “You mean _you’re_ going to drink this abomination, too?’”

“Mark of a good bartender: I never serve anything I wouldn’t drink myself,” Miroku divulged.

Sango accepted her glass with slightly less trepidation than she otherwise would have. “That’s…surprisingly decent of you,” she observed.

Miroku shrugged as he straightened up from tucking the last of the ingredients away under the bar. “It’s all in the interest of friendly solidarity.”

Sango kept her eyes on him in order to avoid looking down at the noxious carbonated ooze in front of her. “Keep this up and I may have to apologize for calling the Drunk Monk a dive,” she teased.

Miroku grinned at her—a warm expression, strangely devoid of the usual predatory undercurrents. “You can call it whatever you like as long as you keep coming back.” He lifted his glass into the air, considering it. “We need something to drink to,” he decided.

“To my necklace,” said Sango without hesitation, raising her own glass. “May it rest in peace.”

Miroku clinked his glass against hers, looking almost pensive as they both downed the putrid mixture. Sango tried her best not to taste the stuff, but she could feel it slide all the way down her esophagus, like really gross whiskey. It was somehow freezing cold _and_ burning hot, sickly sweet and bitterly rancid all at once. The tingling bubbles and mushy, vermicular noodle-bits weren’t helping lower the gross-out factor, either—Sango’s eyes twitched and began to water as she suppressed a gag. When the gag turned into a full-on coughing fit, Miroku reached under the bar and tossed her a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” choked Sango, unscrewing the lid. “That stuff is _nasty_ —does it really work?”

“I told you, I know my trade,” promised Miroku. “I have a customer satisfaction rate of one hundred percent, whether behind the bar—“

“Don’t you _dare_ —”

 

* * *

  

“—Or in the bedroom.”

Sango heaved a sigh of resignation. “ _There_ he is. I knew I wouldn’t make it through this interaction unscathed.”

 _If anyone here is guilty of being_ scathing _, it’s you, my dear_ , was the response on the tip of Miroku’s tongue. But as much as he enjoyed banter, he found curiosity took precedence for the moment. He cocked his head. “You’re truly still upset about the loss of your necklace, aren’t you.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yeah,” admitted Sango, “I guess it’s like you said last night, it was important to me.”

“Well,” said Miroku, thinking fast, “if you come back tonight, we can pour one out for it, on the house.”

Sango smiled in that way that made her nose wrinkle a little. “Pour one out? You mean like, pour alcohol into the grate outside?”

“Why not? It’ll save time if it goes directly into the sewer system instead of passing through drunk people first, and perhaps you’ll even get some closure.”

“Closure?” she laughed in earnest now, and slid down from the stool she’d been occupying. “I should really go. Thanks for this,” she told him, passing her empty shot glass across the bar, “and for returning my phone.”

“You’re welcome. And I meant it about tonight,” Miroku called after her as she strode toward the doors.

Sango paused for a second, but did not look back. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll be there.”

Miroku’s stomach felt suddenly light and bubbly in a way that had nothing to do with the carbonated substances he’d just ingested. He couldn’t resist saying,

“It’s a date.”

“No it’s not,” retorted Sango over her shoulder. In the next moment she’d disappeared through the doors.

It was strange how all the energy and brightness in the room seemed to go with her. _I must have it worse than I thought_ , Miroku realized. Especially when the idea that had been forming in the back of his mind ever since Sango’s toast began to seize hold of him in earnest, and he found himself typing “how to retrieve jewelry from grate” into Google.

 

* * *

  

“You fishing for ferromagnetic alloys, young man?” the wrinkle-faced cashier joked as he rang Miroku’s items up.

“No,” Miroku replied. “I’m afraid I’m fishing for female attention.”

The fellow let out a wheezy laugh. “Good luck then, kid. Just be careful what you wish for, eh? Wouldn’t want to attract the wrong _kind_ of attention,” he added with a wink.

 _Hmm. There’s a_ wrong _kind of attention_? mused Miroku once he was back at the bar, in the process of securing the strongest, most magnetic magnet available at the local hardware store to a length of fishing line.

Maybe the avuncular hardware man had a point. He had appeared out of nowhere to provide advice and cast doubt on Miroku’s plans like a one-scene-wonder character in a romantic comedy (only whiter.) But whether or not to let the advice get to him was Miroku’s choice, and he was leaning toward ignoring it. Attention was attention—and in Sango’s case, even the wrong kind of attention was better than none. Buoyed by thoughts of their interaction that morning, Miroku tied his last knot with decisive flair. Doubts cheerfully consigned to the void, he dug a rattle-y old flashlight out of a drawer and went outside.

He quickly discovered that the best the flashlight could do was to reflect off of one patch of opaque, dirty water at a time—he was going to have to do his magnet-fishing blind. No matter. Miroku was a patient and determined man. After all, he’d been pursuing the same girl for the better part of a year with no success—what was a little extra fishing around in a grate?

Since the grate was round—more of a latticed manhole cover, really—Miroku decided to lower his magnet-string into one section at a time, moving in a counterclockwise spiral. This he did while humming tunelessly to himself (some old drinking song of Mushin’s, probably with lyrics so dirty it was just as well that Miroku had forgotten them.) He was halfway through, with nothing to show for his careful fishing so far, when his phone buzzed.

 

* * *

  

**Kagome**

1:21 PM

[Link: Local Woman’s Engagement Ring Rescued from Sewer by City Maintenance Workers]

do you think I should show this to sango? I don’t want to give her false hope

 

 **Miroku** [purple devil emoji] [prayer beads emoji]

1:22 PM

No, that’s not necessary. Please allow me to handle things [winking emoji]

 

**Kagome**

1:22 PM

handle things??

what do you mean

 

 **Miroku** [purple devil emoji] [prayer beads emoji]

1:23 PM

No need to trouble yourself about it

 

**Kagome**

1:23 PM

miroku what are you up to

1:27 PM

miroku!!

 

✔ Read 1:47 PM

 

* * *

  

Miroku tucked his phone back into his pocket and hauled up his magnet-string with a poetic world-weariness that would have put Coleridge and Hemingway to shame. This was his very last square in the grid, and…yep, no necklace. He regarded the muddy magnet with a critical eye. It wasn’t deficient, so it must be that Sango’s necklace had been swept away, or was stuck beneath something, or perhaps made from a metal that wasn’t magnetic.

 _Time for Plan B._ Miroku dug out his phone and clicked the link Kagome had sent him.

 

**Local Woman’s Engagement Ring Rescued from Sewer by Maintenance Workers**

_When local small business owner Erica Harding dropped her engagement ring into a sidewalk grate near the intersection of 15 th and K streets, it seemed all hope was lost until….after contacting building management, Harding was given the number of Macmillan Energy, the company responsible for the grate’s maintenance…in less than two hours, city maintenance workers Ernest and Santiago were able to retrieve Harding’s ring…“such a relief! I don’t know what I would have done without them!” said Harding…congratulated the workers on their _grate _catch._

 

At no point did the article mention Local Woman Erica Harding deciding to _date_ the heroic city maintenance workers, Miroku noted. Still, he refused to give up. It was time to call in reinforcements.

 

* * *

 

**this idiot**

2:31 PM

Are you busy right now?

 

**Inuyasha**

2:31 PM

no. why

 

**this idiot**

2:32 PM

Good. Please come to the bar as soon as possible

 

**Inuyasha**

2:33 PM

the hell should I do that for

it’s two in the damn afternoon

 

**this idiot**

2:33 PM

Bring a crowbar.

 

**Inuyasha**

2:34 PM

fuck no miroku

whatever this is you’re not fucking dragging me into it with you

2:36 PM

ya got that?

not doing it

2:38 PM

fuck

i’ll be there in 15

I hate you

 

* * *

  

Calling city maintenance had seemed like a solid prospect—until Miroku tried all three of the listed numbers and came up empty (two out of service, one answering machine.) He was just about to despair at not knowing any city maintenance workers when it occurred to him that he _did_ know a _construction_ worker—and weren’t they basically the same thing?

“Fuck no,” said Inuyasha twenty-two minutes later, gigantic crowbar resting nonchalantly on one shoulder.

“What’s the difference?” demanded Miroku. His irritation had begun to seep out against his will, like sweat that made you figuratively salty instead of literally salty.

“For starters, I ain’t allowed to just go around opening up every filthy hole in the city so you can mess around in it,” Inuyasha scoffed.

“Which makes you a terrible wingman,” Miroku couldn’t resist snickering.

Inuyasha reddened. “I didn’t—you _know_ that ain’t what I—shut the hell up, idiot! Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“I asked you here in order to help get my mind—and the rest of me— _into_ the gutter,” Miroku reminded him, gesturing at the grate beneath their feet. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

“I’m saying—dammit— _ugh_. I said I ain’t _allowed_ to do it, not that I _wouldn’t,”_ grumbled Inuyasha.

Miroku’s heart lifted. “So you _will_ help me?” Good old Inuyasha! Always so reliable, despite his best efforts not to be.

“If that’s what it takes to get you to _shut up_ , then fine. Whatever. But you owe me,” was Inuyasha’s not-as-begrudging-as-he-meant-it-to-sound response. Miroku knew better than to hug his prickly best friend, but he risked a jovial pat on the back.

“And next time you text me ‘come over right fucking now and bring a crowbar,’” said Inuyasha, shrugging out from under the pat, “it had better be ‘cause someone’s dead and you need help hiding the damn body, not ‘cause of some stupid necklace.”

 _It’s not stupid_ , Miroku wanted to say. _It’s Sango’s_. “I cannot express how profoundly I appreciate this, my friend,” he said instead.

“Yeah, yeah. Can it with the gratitude before I change my mind,” said Inuyasha with a snort. He squatted down and gave the grate a preliminary poke with his crowbar.

 

* * *

 

 **Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

3:46 PM

hey, would you mind bringing my jacket down with you when we leave for the bar?

I don't have time to stop in and get it

 

 **Sango** [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

3:46 PM

sure, no problem

3:47 PM

[Screenshot]

Any idea what this means?

 

 **Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

3:47 PM

that miroku took the chance to put his # into your phone? why is that such a surprise

 

Sango [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

3:48 PM

Not that. This

[Same screenshot; zoomed in to 200%]

 

 **Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

3:48 PM

oh my sweet summer child

I guess now we know you don’t use emojis with anyone but me [kiss blowing emoji]

 

 **Sango** [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

3:49 PM

yeah, not really

you didn’t answer the question

 

 **Kagome** [heart with arrow emoji]

3:50 PM

[Link: Eggplant Emoji | Know Your Meme]

 

 **Sango** [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

3:50 PM

I’m going to fucking murder him

 

 

**Sango**

3:51 PM

are you pleased with yourself?

 

 **Miroku** [eggplant emoji] [one hundred emoji]

3:51 PM

Immensely. Why do you ask?

 

* * *

  

Sango heaved a sigh at her reflection. There was simply no getting around it—this necklace wasn’t as good as the one she’d lost. It was smaller, and perhaps more fashionable, but it didn’t go with everything she owned the way the other one had. And it certainly didn’t have the same sentimental value.

Oh well. She resigned herself to wearing the delicate gold triangle pendant out to the bar tonight anyway. There was no question of going completely necklace-less—all day her hand had been creeping absently toward her neck, used to fiddling with the chain there, only to stop halfway in embarrassed disappointment. It was a poor substitute, but at least the gold triangle was something to fidget with. At least her neck didn’t feel so bare.

A small, histrionic part of her was tempted to cancel—to text Kagome to go on without her, that she couldn’t possibly go out without her necklace. But the rest of her actually kind of _wanted_ to go to the bar. She had promised Miroku, after all. The brownie points he’d earned that morning from the remarkable efficacy of his hangover cure had since been canceled out by his shameless use of the eggplant emoji, but Sango found she was looking forward to chewing him out in person. That, and there was something she wanted to ask him. A small green shoot of curiosity had taken root in the back of her mind and had been growing there all day.

Necklace troubles aside, she deemed her outfit passable (usual makeup, jeans, and her second-lowest-cut top—one that wouldn't provoke a lecture from Kagome about how she could look _so much cuter_ if only she'd put in some effort.) She was usually wary of making too much effort on evenings when she going to the Drunk Monk—no need to give Miroku any encouragement. But tonight she found she didn't care. Maybe she was too preoccupied with missing her necklace. Yes, that must be it. It wasn't like Miroku was growing on her or anything.

Kagome was practically bouncing up and down on the sidewalk when Sango came downstairs.

“Here’s your jacket. You should really start keeping it at Inuyasha’s place if you’re going to be there all the time,” Sango teased.

Kagome shrugged into the jacket with unnecessary gusto. “Thanks! Gosh, it’s so nice to have missing things returned, isn’t it? I’m so grateful to you, Sango!”

Sango couldn’t help but feel a twinge at that. It wasn’t like her friend to be obtuse or inconsiderate.

But Kagome made no mention of necklaces on the way to the Drunk Monk. It was almost as though she’d forgotten the previous night’s incident entirely—or maybe Sango was just making a big deal out of things. Her father had always said she was never happy without something to be _un_ happy about.

They spent the walk to the bar cheerfully discussing how best to punish Miroku for his eggplant transgression. It was a shorter walk than usual—Kagome kept hurrying Sango along, as if they were going to be late for something. Her eagerness was strangely contagious, and by the time they reached the Drunk Monk, Sango had almost forgotten her jewelry woes.

That is, until she was forced to walk right over the grate that had swallowed up her necklace. She couldn’t help looking down as her feet clanged across it, just in case. Maybe there would be a flicker of silver in the sludgy depths.

There wasn’t. Only the blurry yellow reflection of a streetlight was visible at the bottom. Sango held in a sigh as she and Kagome pushed through into the bustle of the bar.

 

* * *

 

Miroku didn’t have to look up this time, because his eyes were already on the door. Even if they hadn’t been, he would have known it was Sango stepping over the threshold by the way everything slid into slow motion (again.) The air thickened into invisible molasses and his vision went just a little hazy, as if someone had spread vaseline on the lens of a camera. Light poured over Sango in a gentle instant, starting in her hair and flooding downward until her skin glowed, catching on the small gold triangle at the hollow of her throat. This evening’s imaginary soundtrack was _Close To You_ , specifically the part about birds suddenly appearing. Miroku blinked rapidly to dispel the illusion and found that the _real_ song playing over the bar’s speakers was Hot Chocolate’s _You Sexy Thing—_ also appropriate. For a moment the two songs played over each other, reality dueling with imagination in a confused cacophony that was shattered by the actual shattering of a glass. One of Miroku’s regulars had notoriously clumsy elbows—it appeared they had struck again, literally. He hurried around the bar to clean up the mess.

By the time glass had been swept up, spilled beer absorbed by soggy towels, and slurred apologies issued, Miroku had lost track of Sango. It took him a minute to locate her and Kagome in the Friday night throng—there, at the far end of the bar, laughing with their heads bent together. His heart sank a little as he saw they’d already been served. Damn. If only his employees weren’t so good at their jobs. Perhaps he ought to have hired lazier people.

He spent the next half hour in a state of supreme frustration, buffeted by wave after wave of thirsty customers that trapped him at the wrong end of the bar with their endless requests. Miroku was dimly aware of his hands mixing and pouring while his mind stewed in a cocktail of impatience and resentment. _Unbelievable. She’s finally here, at_ my _invitation for the first time, and I’m too busy to talk to her_.

He was on the verge of deciding to blow off the rest of his shift (he owned the place, after all—he could absolutely ditch work to hit on Sango if he wanted to) when a finger tapped him on the wrist.

“Can I get another of these?” asked Sango, plunking her glass of half-melted ice down on the bar.

“Jack and Coke?” asked Miroku, handing his previous customer her gin and tonic. Sango nodded.

“I haven’t forgotten about pouring one out,” he told her as he scooped ice. “Do you mind waiting around until things calm down?”

Sango blinked. “Oh, _that_ ,” she said. Had she forgotten already? And here everything had been going so well.

“We don’t have to, of course,” said Miroku, trying for a casual tone.

“No, it’s fine,” she assured him, picking at a spot on the bar, “I just—can I ask you something?”

Miroku braced himself, ready to be berated for his emoji abuse. “Of course.”

She looked up, appraising. “Earlier, when I left my phone…How did you guess my passcode?”

Miroku raised an eyebrow. “Your cat’s name? You need a better passcode.” He slid her drink over.

She ignored it. “You remembered my cat’s name? How?”

He shrugged. “When you talk, I listen.”

Sango made no reply, but stared at a point just over Miroku’s shoulder, eyes focused inward, brow furrowed a little.

“Miroku! We’re almost out of ice!” one of the other bartenders called.

Miroku covered Sango’s hand with his, just for a second. “Wait here, if you don’t mind,” he instructed.

To his surprise, she cooperated, and was still in the exact same position when he got back. He’d meant to do this with more ceremony, but truth be told, he was tired of waiting. Before Sango could ask what he was doing, he had flipped her hand over and pressed a cool, metal _something_ into her palm. Kagome—who had, he realized with a start, been hovering just within earshot this whole time—hissed a triumphant “Yes!”

But Miroku waited with bated breath for Sango’s reaction. He watched her eyes widen with recognition, and took time to admire the slight parting of her lips as she lifted her necklace— _the_ necklace—into the light, examining it in disbelief. “Is this—? Did you—? How did you find it?” she stammered, clutching it to her chest.

Yep, definitely worth some fumbling around in a storm drain. Miroku considered embellishing the story of the necklace’s retrieval in order to make himself look more impressive and heroic, but a glare from the imaginary Inuyasha in his head stopped him.

“It wasn’t too hard. I enlisted Inuyasha to help crack open the grate with a crowbar,” admitted Miroku.

“You did?” Sango’s eyes were still wide, but a smile was beginning to creep onto her face. She was already unfastening the gold triangle necklace.

Miroku nodded. “Yes. He informed me such an action was against regulations, but didn’t seem too upset about breaking them.”

“I believe it,” chuckled Sango. She lifted the serotonin necklace in her palm again, letting the chain dangle over her knuckles. “I guess there’s no need to pour alcohol into the grate outside anymore.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Miroku evenly.

“Well, I…I really can’t thank you enough for this. I thought it was gone forever,” said Sango as she reached back to fasten the necklace. He couldn’t resist watching the pendant settle back into place between her collarbones. Good. It looked _right_ there. Sango’s fingertips lingered, tracing the familiar shape.

 _What are you doing, you fool? There will never be a better chance to ask her out_. Miroku waited for his lips to form the words, imagined himself leaning over the bar. It wasn’t such a great distance. And Sango was leaning toward him already, elbows resting on the polished wood. Forget asking her out, it would be _so easy_ to close the distance and steal a kiss…

“You’re welcome,” said Miroku, and bent to retrieve the cloth he used to wipe down the bar. Sango was eyeing him when he straightened back up.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just…is that all? I’ve come to know what you’re like, and the Miroku I know and tolerate would use an opportunity like this to hit on me.”

Miroku tugged at his ponytail. “Well, it’s been brought to my attention that my methods may not be the _best_ way to win you over. And as for the necklace, it’s yours. It makes you happy. You should have it. You don’t owe me anything—I suppose I just didn’t like seeing you upset about it.” He shrugged. “And contrary to popular belief, ‘the Miroku you know and tolerate’ isn’t cruel enough to hold it hostage in exchange for a date.” _Well…not_ quite _cruel enough_.

Sango blinked, chewing her lower lip just a little as she took this all in. “No, I suppose you’re not. I’m sorry for making assumptions.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Just don’t think I’ve reformed myself into some kind of perfect gentleman,” Miroku warned. He leaned in, letting his fingers _just_ brush the inside of her arm and start to trail upwards.

Sango held still and met his gaze for a second before sliding her arm out of reach. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. Because when you _do_ agree to go out with me, you’re going to have to accept me as I am, warts and all.”

“ _There_ he is. I’ll keep that in mind.” She rolled her eyes, but more out of habit than actual annoyance, Miroku suspected. His heart rose like a rubber duck on a tide of bubbles.

Kagome bounced over, somehow even more excited about the return of Sango’s necklace than Sango herself, and eager to let her friend know she’d been in on everything. Soon the two of them were discussing Inuyasha’s part in the rescue and his grumpy texts to Kagome about it.

 _I’ll keep that in mind_. Miroku spent the rest of the evening turning the phrase over in his brain—what had Sango meant by it? Did he dare ask her? He didn’t want to ruin the tentative progress he seemed to have made by _not_ asking. Still, he couldn’t help but drift closer to her and Kagome as the hours trickled by and the crowd of customers thinned, catching snatches of their conversation and enjoying the sense of satisfaction that suffused him whenever the light reflected off the carefully polished silver at Sango’s throat.

“—we stop and get milkshakes from the 24 hour place on the way home?” Kagome was saying.

“I can’t, sorry,” said Sango. “I have plans.”

Kagome frowned. “Since when? What plans?”

“I’m going to Miroku’s to Netflix and chill,” Sango explained.

Miroku almost dropped the glass he was wiping. He and Kagome blinked at each other, speechless. Had Sango _actually_ just used the phrase “Netflix and chill?”

“Unless you’re busy,” amended Sango, addressing Miroku directly this time.

“I’m….I…No, of course not. Not at all. I’m definitely not busy.” He sounded _way_ too eager. Oh well. It was all he could do not to reach down and pinch himself.

There was a strange gleam in Sango’s eyes—had she been teasing him?

“Oh,” said Kagome, who looked like every single holiday had just come early. Her fingers moved rapidly under the bar—no doubt texting Inuyasha several paragraphs’ worth of exclamation points. “ _Those_ plans.” 

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes into Netflix and chill, and Miroku had a question. He gently dislodged Sango from her place against his shoulder so that he could pull away enough to look at her.

He took a steadying breath. “May I ask you something?”

Sango looked up. “Go ahead.” Her eyelashes cast a delicate fringe of shadow over her cheekbones, he noted. 

“Is this all because I rescued your necklace?”

Was it just the reflection of the flickering TV, or was there a teasing glimmer in her eyes again? Miroku decided it was the second thing, and that he wanted to see it as often as possible.

“No,” she said. “It’s because you rescued my necklace and didn’t ask me out afterwards.”

She kissed him.

 _Damn_ , thought Miroku. _I hate it when Inuyasha is right_.

 

* * *

 

 **Sango** [pink heart emoji] [sparkles emoji]

11:21 AM

Hey kagome, it’s miroku. Could you let Sango know she left her phone at my place?

 

 

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  1 Please imagine this in the style of Salt Bae
> 
> This probably should have been 3 parts, but whatever, hope y'all enjoyed


End file.
